


Well, Shit

by jennserr



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fix-It, Fluff, How Do I Tag, I'm gonna give the gays everything they want, Modern Girl in Thedas, Rating May Change, Smut, Swearing, Tags May Change, You Have Been Warned, canon will be taken out back and shot, relationship tags may change, so much fucking swearing, there's gonna be sexy times at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-08 10:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15929051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennserr/pseuds/jennserr
Summary: Much as she was loathe to admit it, Valentina was, for the foreseeable future, stuck in Thedas. And if she wanted to survive, she'd have to wise up fast. She could worry about changing canon later.Things could be worse, of course. At least she wasn't in Ferelden when the Fifth Blight kicked off.It also helped that Varric was a bro and Hawke was charming.





	1. Prologue - Well, That's One Way To Cross Dimensions

“Bullshit,” Cassandra Pentaghast exclaimed. “That’s not what really happened!”

“Does that not match the story you’ve heard, Seeker?” Varric intoned with an air of indifference, inspecting his nails as though nonplussed by her outburst.

The Seeker in question began pacing angrily. She seemed to do everything angrily, Varric mused. “I’m not interested in stories. I came to hear the truth.”

He snorted at that. “What makes you think I know the truth?”

It must have been the wrong thing to say, for Cassandra was suddenly in his face. “Don’t lie to me! You knew her even before she became the Champion!”

“Even if I did, I don’t know where she is now,” Varric lied, raising both hands in a placating gesture. Oh, he definitely knew where she was. He’d even helped her escape the public eye. Not that he was going to be telling the angry human, of course.

There was an almost pleading tone to her voice when she said, “Do you have any idea what’s at stake here?”

That prompted an exaggerated eye-roll and sigh. “Let me guess: your precious Chantry’s fallen to pieces and put the entire world on the brink of war? And you need the one person who can put it back together.” _Not that she’d be of much help_ , Varric thought to himself. Hawke wasn’t the Hero of Ferelden; she was just one woman in a shithole city who always ended up being dragged into the middle of any and every mess, and then having the mounting expectations of a city heaped onto her shoulders.

“The Champion was at the heart of it when it all began,” Cassandra said, slowly moving to stand in a circle of light that spilled into the room from above. Her eyes hardened. “If you can’t point me to her, tell me everything you know.”

Varric leaned toward the woman, a shrewd, calculating look in his eyes. “You aren’t worried I’ll just make it up as I go?”

She matched his gaze with one as sharp and cold as the steel she carried at her hip. “Not at all.”

He considered his words carefully as he sized her up. If he was going to tell it right, make her believe, then he might as well tell her the truth. And if he just so happened to "forget" some parts, well, nobody could blame him—some of it had happened nearly a decade ago, after all.

“Are you _sure_ you want to hear what really happened? The truth isn’t exactly easy to listen to.”

Determination shone in her eyes when she answered him. “I am a Seeker of Truth, _dwarf._  Truth is seldom easy to bear, but bear it I must.”

“Then you’ll need to hear the whole story,” Varric said as he eased back into the chair and steepled his fingers. “Starting from the _very_ beginning…”

* * *

Had anyone been passing by this one particular Lowtown alley on this one particular day at this one particular moment, they would have received quite the shock—people appearing from thin air in a flash of light without so much as a “how do you do” was simply not by any means a common occurrence, even in Kirkwall. As it was, Valentina Ledoux was herself more than surprised enough for everyone when she fell from the air and onto the dirty ground of the Lowtown alley. 

It hurt. There were no two ways about it—being all but slammed into the ground from even a few feet in the air hurt like a bitch. Her hands, elbows, knees, chest, face… her entire body was one big mass of pain from the sudden and jarring impact with the ground. And she could not for the life of her figure out how she had gotten to a point where falling from mid-air was a common enough occurrence as to happen to her. What had she even been doing last that she had ended up like this?

It didn’t help that she probably had a mild concussion and her whole body throbbed dully in pain. Made it kinda hard to concentrate.

She groaned as the pain of the impact decided to make itself loudly known. “Mother _fucker_ ,” she swore under her breath. Well, at least she knew she could still use her mouth. Even if it did taste like liquid rust. Meaning she probably bit her tongue or cheek upon landing. “Fuck,” she swore again, spitting the blood out.

Once she determined she probably hadn’t broken anything _(it wasn’t that hard or far of a fall, was it? She hoped not)_ , Val climbed slowly to her feet to assess herself and her surroundings.

She grimaced. In pain and discomfort, but also at what she saw around her.

She was in some kind of narrow alley between low buildings, that much she was sure of. There was nobody around that she could see, but she could hear the sounds of the city from just beyond. The smell of the alley was absolutely revolting. It was daylight out, but where she was standing was entirely in shadow. And she had no memory whatsoever of getting there.

The first thing that she was certain of was that she needed to get out of the alleyway, and get out _now_ ; she could figure out what to do after that.

It wasn’t a deep alley, not like what you’d find in downtown, and it was only a dozen or so steps before she had left it behind her and was squinting against the light that poured down on her from above. As her eyes adjusted to the sudden change in brightness, her ears took in the sounds of hustle and bustle she’d heard before, but for some reason she couldn’t put her finger on, something felt… off.

Her hand dipped to her pocket of its own accord to pull out her phone. Even in the shade, she had to squint and shade the screen to make it out, but it was for naught—the thing was busted. The screen, which previously had only had a few small cracks spider-webbing from the top right corner, was now all but shattered, and didn’t respond in any way when she tried every button.

“Fuck.” She’d just paid it off, too.

Valentina sighed and shoved the phone back in her pocket, then looked back up to her surroundings with the intent of finding a coffee shop or something where she could ask a kind stranger to borrow their (unbroken) device for a minute so she could find her carrier’s closest location, or figure out where in the city she was so she could get back to her apartment, but she pulled up short when her eyes took everything in.

Something was off. That much she was certain. And the more she looked around, the more her suspicion grew.

This wasn’t Vancouver.

At least, it wasn’t the street she’d been walking along before… whatever it was that happened, happened.

She was pretty sure, anyways.

…Where the hell was she?

Standing there near the entrance of the alley she’d literally dropped into, she looked around at her surroundings, slowly taking everything in. The (in need of repair) cobbled road. The pedestrians wearing clothes that looked like they belonged at a renaissance faire. The wood and stone and thatch-roofed buildings. The lack of anything resembling street lights, signs, or the large glass windows of street-front stores.

She listened, and heard… people. No honking, no cars, no skytrain, no planes flying to or from YVR; just people.

In the distance, a dog barked.

Where in the hell was she?

Okay, she’d just, take a deep breath (not through her nose) and go ask someone where she was.

Seriously, _where the fuck was she?_ How did she get here? This must have been some elaborate setup, but she hadn’t heard that the city was doing this—not surprising, she didn’t keep an eye on the news as much as some of her friends did, but, still, she should have heard of this. And besides, wouldn’t this have been at one of the parks? Last she was aware of, she hadn’t been anywhere near a park.

Hell, now that she thought about it, she had no idea what she was doing before… _this._ She… she’d been walking to work downtown after having gotten off the 16 bus in mid-afternoon. Okay. Good. Then… she’d turned onto the street her work was on, and… was accosted by a… beggar…? Maybe? Her memory became sketchy at best around then.

Shit, she was gonna be late to work. Again. Randy was gonna skin her alive. And maybe fire her.

Fuck.

Okay, okay. Step One: find out where she was, since she didn’t recognize this part of the city and her phone was useless to her now. Step Two: figure out a way back to work. Ideally (preferably) unharassed. Step Three: don’t get fired.

Easy, right?

* * *

Wrong. It took Val all of five minutes or so to realize that something was very, very wrong.

It was when she truly took notice of her surroundings that she began to suspect that something was up. Namely, the architecture, clothing styles, and distinct lack of any visible modern amenities or technology.

It was when she asked directions from a woman working behind a stall selling wares nearby that her suspicions mounted—particularly when the woman claimed not to have ever heard of such places as “Davie Street”, “Downtown”, and even “Vancouver.”

And it was when she noticed she was being followed by three men with leery expressions after leaving the woman alone, that she began to panic a little. Only a little, though—let it never be said that Valentina Amelia Kristina Martinez Ledoux ever panicked outright. She could handle three men. She just needed to stay out in the open. Not end up trapped in some dead end or alley.

Which, of course, was exactly what happened.

“Well well, what’d’we have here, lads?” the taller one in the middle said.

“Somebody you don’t want to fuck with,” Val fired back. Her hand began to creep to where she kept her mace, only to whiff at air—she didn’t have her bag on her.

“Ooh, looks like a feisty one,” Said the one on the right, a bulkier looking man with a face only a mother could love.

The one on the left, a rather unremarkable looking man, licked his lips in anticipation. “I do like ‘em feisty, I do.”

Val shuddered. “You better back the hell up and get away from me, or else,” she warned, settling into what she figured was a fighting stance, but she and her assailants both knew her words were just empty threats. Dammit, of all the times to not remember the one self defense class she took—

* * *

“Stop, wait a moment,” Cassandra interrupted once again, cutting Varric off with a raised hand. “Why are you telling me about this… girl? How is she important to the Champion’s story?”

Varric huffed.“If you keep interrupting me you won’t find out, Seeker. Now, will you let me tell the story or not?”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him and was silent for a long moment. “…Very well,” she eventually allowed. “And _don’t_ leave anything out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

A door suddenly opened to her right, spilling light and noise into the alley as a person stepped out of the doorway. The world seemed to pause for a moment. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as they assessed each other—the tension in the heavy air was thick enough to cut. At last, the newcomer spoke.

“I thought I told ya to get back in here five minutes ago and finish cleanin' up that mess those Templars left," the person, a man somewhere in his middle ages if she had to guess, said to Val in a slightly gravelly voice. He gave Val a significant look—a raised eyebrow, a smirk, and a wink—before turning to the men at the mouth of the alley. “Were you lot botherin' my employee?”

He stepped further out into the alley, and Val—and the men—could now see he was armed. It was a kitchen knife, but Val got the feeling he knew quite well how to use it. Thankfully for her, it appeared that the men did as well, for they were quick to scurry away now that she wasn’t alone.

When they were all three finally out of sight, Val let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

“Are you alright, miss?”

She turned to look up into the face of the man who was apparently her saviour; kind eyes set in a weathered and tanned face gazed down at her, a soft expression on the man’s face putting her at ease.

“Yeah.” Val fidgeted with her hands. “Yeah, I’m- thanks. For that. You didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense. Us Lowtown folks hafta look out for each other. Maker knows no one else will.”

It took a good few seconds for his words to register, but when they did, they pulled Val up short.

“Sorry, did… Did you just say _Lowtown_?”

The man looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “You’re certainly not in Hightown, if that’s what yer askin'.”

Oh no. Ohhhh no this couldn’t be happening. “As in, Lowtown, Kirkwall?” _Please say no please say no please s-_

“Know any other Lowtowns this side of the Free Marches?”

_Well, shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have it! Honestly I'm surprised with myself that I was even able to finish this chapter within the timeframe I said I would. shoutout to the Modern Character in Thedas discord for getting me to finally write this, this chapter's for all yall. maybe I can keep it up in the future. ~~(doubt)~~
> 
> tbh I was going to tag more ships at first, but at the time of writing this I don't know what will happen with those or if they even will. That said, if there's anything you the reader wish to see, be it some witty banter, a specific scene, or a pairing, let me know!


	2. Mental Breakdowns Build Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Val contemplates what her life has become, gets drunk, and gets hired. You know, all in a day's work.
> 
>  **Edit 10/31:** moved Val's arrival backwards by one month to fit with author's timeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy look at that, I was actually able to get the next chapter up in a week. Heck, I may even be able to keep a Sunday posting schedule if I keep this up.
> 
> A big thank you for all the comments and kudos, they helped give me the motivation I needed to finish and post this

“Are ye goin' to be okay, lady?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just. Need a minute.”

The man—Ernest, Val had learned at some point—huffed in exasperation. “Yeh’ve been ‘needing a minute’ for the last hour. If yer gonna stay, at least have a drink.”

Valentina finally looked up from where she had been spacing out with her gaze fixed somewhere on the wooden table she sat at, in the back corner of a tavern that Ernest apparently ran. She’d been sitting there, doing more or less exactly what she was currently doing, ever since he led her inside to calm down and regain her composure.

Had she really spent an hour staring at a table?

No, that wasn’t what she’d been doing. What was actually going on was Valentina trying, failing, trying again, and failing once more to rationalize what was going on, and when that train of thought would inevitably dead-end, she would try waking herself up from what had to have been a dream. She’d even gone through the first four stages of grief already. Jury was still out on the whole ‘acceptance’ thing.

No, what Ernest had said had rocked her world. She was in Kirkwall. In Thedas. _In a fucking fictional world._ There was no explanation she could come up with to explain any of it, yet there she was, sitting in a tavern in Lowtown, on the verge of a mental breakdown if not already gripped by one.

Shit, she was so out of her depth here. She’d played the games, several times over, sure. She’d dissected the lore and done some theory crafting. She’d read fanfiction about it (who hadn’t?). And now, here she was, an actual goddamn modern girl in motherfucking Thedas. Complete with knowledge of the canon(ish) timeline.

…Things could be worse, of course. She could have ended up in the Mass Effect universe and had to deal with an imminent Reaper invasion. Now all she had to worry about was the Fifth Blight (assuming it hadn’t happened already), Kirkwall going up in flames (which definitely hadn’t happened yet), and Corypheus and Solas both fucking with the Veil (also not there yet).

Oh, _shit._ There was actual honest-to-god _magic_  in this world.

Fuck her sideways. She was not nearly drunk enough to deal with any of this right now. Or ever.

“Yeah, alright,” she finally said. “What’s on tap?”

Ernest gave her a small smile. “Depends what ya want. You’ll be pleased to know that we have ale, wine, mead, more ale, and our very own house special.”

“House special?”

“Wouldn’t be so special if I told ye what was in it, now would it.”

Val sighed and sat back in her chair, temporarily resigned to her fate. “Whatever’s strongest, I guess.”

“Splendid.” And with that he turned and headed back to where Val assumed the drinks were kept, calling as he went, “Carl! One house special for the special lady!”

“One house special for the special lady, coming right up!” was the muffled answering call from behind a wall that Ernest disappeared around a moment later, leaving Val alone to her thoughts once more.

Unless she figured out a way back, then she was stuck here either until she died (fuck that noise) or until Corypheus tore the Veil a new one and she was able to use that to cross dimensions/universes/whatever and get back to Earth. That was how most modern people ended up in Thedas, wasn’t it? Some sort of bullshit Fade shenanigans to do with the Breach?

Then how the fuck did _she_ get here, without any of that?

Worse, she couldn’t even be sure yet whether this was real or not. She’d already ruled out dreaming; she didn’t lucid dream, and if you have to ask yourself “am I dreaming?” the answer is probably a big fat No. People almost never ask themselves that when they’re actually dreaming. She hadn’t ruled out a head trauma-induced hallucination though, especially since she might have a concussion from the fall. But, again, if that were the case, she probably wouldn’t be nearly as fully conscious and self-aware as she was.

Ugh. Everything about this goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation that Val found herself in was a fucking mess, and thinking about it any more would only serve to make worse the headache that was steadily building behind her eyes.

At least she wasn’t still out on the street. The tavern that Ernest owned wasn’t half bad, once she actually took a look around. It wasn’t terribly big, but what it lacked in space it made up for in a slightly homey atmosphere. A large stone fireplace sat in the centre of the room, currently empty, though there was plenty enough light provided by the candles and few torches ensconced along the walls. There was no need to light it, not when it was already quite warm in the tavern to begin with, even with so few patrons. There were only about six other people that she could count, four men and two women, all of whom appeared to range in ages from about mid-20s to their 40s.

There was slightly less to be said about the decor. Mismatched wooden tables, seats, benches, and stools were in abundance, all more or less jammed together, and when Val looked, there was only one painting hanging on one of the walls. Upon closer inspection, it looked to depict a man in armour holding his sword aloft while riding what appeared to be a griffon. Considering the fact that this was Thedas, she felt it safe to assume it was a Grey Warden in the painting.

Fuck, it would be so cool if griffons weren’t extinct.

“Here you go, lass, one House Special,” said a man who wasn’t Ernest as he set a wooden tankard down in front of her with a flourish, startling her from her musings. “Sure to put a grimace on your face and a stumble in your step.” Shit, it was gonna take some time to get used to the accent around here.

Val raised an eyebrow at the man—Carl, if she had to guess—then grimaced when she realized she had no money on her, Thedosian or otherwise. “How much?”

The Man Who Was Probably Carl smiled down at her. “For you, lady? On the house.”

She blinked owlishly up at him. Strange men giving her free drinks always made her wary. “What’s the catch?”

“Catch?” he asked, looking at her with confusion written across his pale features. “No catch. Ernie figured you could use a pick-me-up after all, well, _that_.”

Ah.

Okay then. “Well, bottom’s up,” she said as she raised the mug to her lips and took a deep sip.

And immediately gagged on the vile concoction, earning a laugh from Carl and several of the other patrons as she unwillingly did her best impression of someone coughing up a lung. A decent amount of the offending drink ended up on the table. “ _Jesus fuck_ ,” she wheezed in between coughs, “what is _in_ this?”

“Take it from me, girly,” said a male patron a few tables away, “you’re better off not knowing.”

“And people actually _drink_ this?” Now mostly recovered from her near-poisoning, she looked up in horror at Carl. Then winced when she realized she’d probably just slighted him. “Uh, no offense.”

“None taken.” He leaned his hip against the table, facing her. “And they don’t drink it for the taste, if that’s what you mean.”

She could see what he meant; already, she was feeling the effects of even just the meagre amount of alcohol that had made its way down to her stomach. “Shit, I could have made better than this,” she muttered to herself as she warily peered down into the now only half-full tankard.

“You can?”

Val looked up at Carl, who at some point had slid into the seat across the table from her and was now looking expectantly at her. “Uh… Well, yeah, I guess. Was what I did at my last job.” Granted, Val had been mixing Earth liquors at that job, not Thedas booze. She strongly suspected that the two didn’t share many similarities.

Carl tilted his head to the side, studying her. “What all did you do at your last job?”

“Uh, mixed and served drinks, waited tables, bussed them,” she counted out on her fingers, “and occasionally kicked people out when they got too rowdy.”

He leaned towards her over the table. “And are you currently working there?”

Val’s eyebrows furrowed. _Not while I’m in Thedas I’m not._ “No…?”

“Great! When can you start?”

She did a double take. “What?”

“Ernie!” he suddenly called over his shoulder. “Found you a new assistant!”

“’Bout time!” was the answering shout, accompanied by scattered cheers from around the tavern. Val just sat there, looking very much like a deer in headlights, as Carl started in on some spiel that she couldn’t really focus on.

_Did… Was I just hired? For insulting their drinks?_

* * *

 Varric paused in his retelling and glared at Cassandra, who was giving him a disapproving look. “Alright, what is it now?”

Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest. “You told me this would be the story of the Champion. Why are you telling me about a tavern girl?”

“What part of ‘the _whole_ story, starting from the _very beginning_ ’ did you miss, Seeker?” he all but hissed. Now quite thoroughly exasperated for having to walk Cassandra through it practically step by step, he dragged a hand down his face and sighed. “This is where it all began; a woman, a tavern in Lowtown, and a fresh start.”

She made a _hmph_ sound that somehow served to deepen the scowl set like stone in her sharp features. “You keep saying this is _where_ it started, yet you have failed to tell me _when_.”

“All in good time, Seeker, all in good time."

* * *

 “Any questions?” Carl asked, finally finishing his speech to Val. One which she had not been paying attention to in favour of recovering from the surprise of having been hired on the spot. That, and the pleasant buzz she was starting to feel more.

 _Only about a thousand._ She shook her head to clear it. “A few, yeah. Is there somewhere I could stay? I kinda don’t live anywhere at the moment.” Technically true, as her apartment was in a whole other world.

Carl rubbed the back of his neck as he considered her question. “Well, we’ve got rooms upstairs and usually one of ‘em is empty, so it’s all yours until you find your own place. Just know that it’ll be coming out of your pay.”

Well, it was better than nothing, and was more or less equal to the portion of her paycheck that rent had cost her. “Sounds reasonable. What’s the pay?”

“Fifty silvers a week, and half of that’ll cover your lodging.”

Okay. So Val knew next to nothing about the currency in Thedas other than “100 coppers = 1 silver” and that the same ratio could be applied for silver and gold pieces. And that gold pieces were often called “sovereigns.” That said, based on what she remembered from buying items in Origins, and from some D&D campaigns back in college, she figured she would need a fair bit more than that to be able to purchase, well, anything, really. First and foremost clothing and food.

Now was the time for no small amount of haggling and bluffing. Thank god for reading all those articles about how to ask for higher wages. Granted, they were written for 21st century earth, not whatever-age-it-was Thedas, so a little improvisation was needed. “So only really twenty-five a week for spending? You’re shitting me. That’s barely enough to put clothes on my back. Eighty a week."

Val sat back, waiting for Carl to make his move. He'd set the stage when he lowballed her, giving her a number below what she expected was reasonable. She'd responded in kind with her own overestimation. If she played this right, she could probably increase her weekly wage but at least ten silvers, if not more. As long as Carl played into the hand she'd dealt him, the two of them could settle on a number somewhere in the middle.

He frowned. “fifty-five.”

Perfect.

“Seventy.”

“Sixty silvers, and room and board's twenty-five. You’re getting a discount as it is. Take it or leave it.”

Val stared long and hard into Carl’s eyes, considering. Realistically, it was this or nothing. Yes, she could probably find work just by wandering around _(wonder if the Hanged Man is hiring…)_ , but she highly doubted that anyone would just straight up offer work to her like this again. From Thedas’ point of view, the only skills she had were customer service, preparing drinks, reading, writing, doing math that was likely beyond even the most educated of nobles’ knowledge… okay, so maybe she stood a pretty good chance of being hired easily. Honestly, her best bet would be in Orlais, but that would require actually _getting there_ in the first place. Which cost time and money. Probably a lot of money. Money that Val didn’t have and desperately needed if she was going to have even a small chance of making it through the month, let alone the fourteen year long shitstorm that would start in 9:30 Dragon. Assuming she wasn’t already in the midst of it or that it was far enough in the future that she likely wouldn’t see it in her (now shortened) lifetime. Or that she could find a way out of Thedas soon.

Fingers crossed on that last part.

“Deal,” she finally said, extending her hand over the table to seal the deal. “But I expect a raise in a few months.”

Carl reached out to shake hands with her. “Don’t push your luck. And welcome to the Wayward Warden, erm…”

“Valentina,” she supplied. “But I prefer Val.”

He smiled at her and withdrew his hand. “Right. Val. When can you start?”

 _When?_  A very good question indeed. “Uh, what day is it right now?”

“Fuck if I know,” Carl said with a shrug, then turned in his chair to shout back to where Val presumed the kitchen was. “Hey Ernie! What day is it?”

The two waited in the relative silence of the tavern for a long moment before they got their answer. “Ehhh… Ssssixth? of Drakonis. Thursday. I think.” Carl twisted back to face her with a grin.

“There you go, Thursday, sixth of Drakonis.”

There was still one more thing she needed to know. Val bit her lip before she voiced her next question, barely above a whisper. “So, one last question, and I feel stupid for asking, but uh, what year is it again?”

“Shit, yeah I can see why you’d feel stupid,” he agreed. “Where’ve you been the last four months?”

“Oh, you know…” Val shrugged and made a noncommittal gesture with her hands that could mean anything. “Working.”

That earned a dry chuckle, more of a snort, really. “I know what you mean. And it’s 9:30 Dragon, to answer your question. Now, to finally answer mine, when can you start?”

Okay. It was the 6th day of Drakonis—apparently a Thursday—in 9:30 Dragon Age. Val had no idea which month Drakonis was, but she knew quite well what the year meant; and considering that she’d yet to hear anyone mention Ferelden or the Fifth Blight, it probably hadn’t started yet. Okay. Val could work with this. She had no idea what she’d do, but this at least was a start.

She grabbed her mug and peered into it, watching the alcohol slosh around. _Fuck it._

“Tomorrow,” she declared with finality, then downed the rest of her drink in one long pull.

Correction: Val could work with this _in the morning._


	3. Learning On The Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Val has a fun first week in Kirkwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! Still managed to get this out on Sunday (in my timezone anyway). Hope yall enjoy it, and once again, thank you for all the kudos and comments. I couldn't have done this without you.

**Day 1**

Val didn’t so much wake up as return to the land of the living, though even that was a stretch. The first thing she became aware of, quite painfully in fact, was a pounding in her head that felt like someone was hitting her with a hammer. Next to come was light that even through her closed eyes was far too bright, followed by equally too loud sounds of city bustle. To say that she was hungover was the understatement of the century.

She groaned, then winced at the noise that even that produced. What had happened? She almost never got this plastered; it wasn’t like she was the kind of person who drank to cope or forget. Regularly, anyways.

Val rolled onto her back and brought her right arm to rest over her closed eyes as memories of the previous day trickled in. The alley. The would-be muggers. Getting hired at a tavern, then getting absolutely smashed. She really, really hoped that was just a dream, that when she opened her eyes she would see her bedroom. Hell, even the back room of the bar would be an improvement over being in Kirkwall.

The door to her room burst open with a bang, startling Val with the sudden influx of light and noise.

“Wakey wakey Valentina, morning waits for no one!” a familiar voice said, sounding far, far too cheery for this early in the morning. “Yer first shift starts today, and if ya want to get any food in ya before then, I suggest ya get up soon.” Oh no.

She could only groan in response. Ernest thankfully took it as an affirmation that she understood him, for a moment later she heard his footsteps retreating down a set of stairs.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck _fuck._

It hadn’t been a dream.

She was officially stuck in Kirkwall.

In Thedas.

A fictional world from a video game franchise.

_FUCK._

Okay. Okay okay okay. She’s got this. She can handle it. Bitching about it wouldn’t solve anything. Just take it one day at a time, and go from there.

Step one: find the washroom and take a piss. Step two: get food and water. Step three: make it through the day. And hope that her headache went away soon.

Easy.

* * *

It was never easy.

For one, the Wayward Warden didn’t have a washroom, nor a toilet, or running water. All it had was a single, small room with a window, a water basin on a stand, a grubby mirror hanging above it, and a chamber pot. When she looked around, she found nothing else in the room—nothing resembling toilet paper or even just a towel, only the water basin.

She checked her reflection in the mirror before doing anything else—she had no real way of knowing whether she was one of those body-snatching or turned-into-an-elf Modern Girls In Thedas. It came as a relief then when she discovered she was still herself. Same light brown skin from her mother’s side, same dark brown eyes that had stared back at her all her life, same short curly black hair with the sides shaved. Her eyes flicked to her ears. Still round.

Thank fuck.

She gave the rest of herself a once over, just to be sure. Everything seemed to be in its place exactly as it was, down to the familiar constellation of freckles on her arms and the surgical scar on her left hip. She was still wearing the black jeans, t-shirt, and Chucks she had been wearing when she left for work yesterday. No body-snatching or transforming for this woman. She was, blessedly, herself, through and through.

(Okay, so it would have been nice if her tits were just a little bigger and her hip was back to normal, but otherwise this was perfectly fine.)

Satisfied that at least she hadn’t fallen into any more tropes, she turned away from the mirror with a grin.

Then frowned when she realized she would have to piss in the chamber pot by her feet. And there was nothing to wipe with. And that this was the best she was going to get for a while. She wrinkled her nose. This was going to take a _lot_ of getting used to.

* * *

“Here you are, one hangover cure,” Carl said (quietly, thank god), placing a plate of bread, cheese, and something that vaguely resembled a sausage patty in front of her. He finished by setting a tall mug next to the plate. “Let me or Ernie know if you need anything else. Can’t promise we’ll have it though.” And away he went, leaving Val to nurse her hangover in peace.

She started with the bread. Having no eating utensils, she settled for ripping a small chunk off with her hands and taking a bite of that. It wasn’t… _bad_ , not really. It was just, _incredibly_ bland, a bit gritty, and more than a little stale. Definitely something likely better enjoyed when paired with soup or a stew.

When Val reached for the mug to wash the bread down, she hesitated. Was the drinking water here clean? Where did the Wayward Warden get it’s water? Then she realized that it didn’t matter, because water was water, everyone got the same water (more or less), and she didn’t want to die of thirst. If she got dysentery, so be it.

She grabbed the mug.

* * *

Fun fact about Thedas: because potable drinking water wasn’t really a thing (at least in Kirkwall), people would instead drink a _shit_ ton of ale, which was apparently far cleaner due to the fermenting process. The same could also be said for hard cider. In fact, pretty much every alcoholic beverage was almost certainly cleaner than most water.

Another fun fact: ale, cider, beer, and wine could all be brewed such as to have very low alcohol contents. Like, even lower than lite beer, with the benefit of actually tasting half-decent or better.

Val learned all this after finishing her breakfast when she asked Ernest what the alcohol content of each drink was. Or rather, how much each drink would get you drunk.

It was a surprisingly informative lecture. One that he seemed a little confused to be giving, as if she should know all this already.

After that, Val set about familiarizing herself with what was now her working space. Dining area, psuedo-bar, kitchen, larder, guest rooms, linens closet, cleaning supplies closet, and last but not least the alley where Ernest had found her. There was actually surprisingly little garbage in the alley, she found, which confused her until she realized that, because of the complete absence of plastics, trash could just be burned. Assuming it wasn’t also taken elsewhere a la medieval garbage collectors. For all she know everything was dumped in the sewers or the Bone Pit.

When she went back inside, Ernest was waiting at the bar with a smile.

“Carl told me ya could fix drinks, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let’s see what ye got.” Then he thumped the top of the bar twice and withdrew from it, gesturing for Val to take his place.

She considered the selection once she was situated behind the bar. She’d learned which drinks were where earlier, during her little tour of the place; the majority of them were in barrels either in the larder or kitchen, although there were a few wooden kegs behind the bar itself. Cider, two different beers, and three ales they were, all tapped and ready for pouring. There were even some glass bottles of hard liquor down in the larder, but Val suspected they were only to be brought out for customers with a few sovereigns to spare.

Three men entered the tavern then, talking amongst themselves and looking the picture of Lowtown sophistication. Her first customers of the day.

Val grinned. This was what she knew.

* * *

Cassandra glowered at Varric. It may as well be her neutral face for all he knew, but this felt slightly more glower-y than usual. “Are you just going to describe every single day of her life?”

“Would you like me to?” he simpered.

She made a noise of disgust.

* * *

**Day 2**

“Y’know,” Carl began, “it occurs to me that I know very little about you, Val.”

She looked up from washing the mug in her hands and smirked at Carl. “All part of my mystique. I can’t just go and reveal my tragic backstory right off the bat.”

“Right off the what?”

Val sighed. “Right away.” Fuck, she would need to get used to using Thedas-isms instead of Earth-isms. _Maker_ this and _Sweet Andraste_ that and all. No more modern slang or memes for her.

Oh god. Nobody in Thedas knew about memes. This really _was_ a nightmare.

“Ah.” He nodded in understanding. Silence prevailed for a moment before Carl seemed to remember what he was originally going to say. “So uh, have you always lived in Kirkwall?”

Shit. She hadn’t come up with her tragic backstory yet. At least, not one that would work in Thedas.

_Come on Val, think._

Okay, so, if Orlais was more or less equivalent to France, she could pass her softer Quebec accent off as being Orlesian, and say she had Antivan or Rivain heritage. Probably go with Antiva, since she at least knew a little Spanish.

As for how she got to Kirkwall… Shit, that was a tough one. Better to just be cryptic and mysterious. Vague. Give one or two word responses. Enough to answer the question without giving up anything else.

“Nope.”

_Perfect._

Carl leaned his arms on the bar in front of her and interlaced his fingers. “So where are you from, originally? Cause you sound Orlesian.”

Ah yes, she’d never been asked that before. “Originally? Eastern Orlais.”

“Aha, thought so. How’d you end up in Kirkwall then?”

Now for the tough part. “Ran away from home soon as I was old enough. Made my way to the Free Marches, been here ever since.” At least she wasn’t telling a _complete_ lie; the only thing made up about that part of her backstory was the location. And really, she _had_ been in the Free Marches ever since she ‘made her way to them’—all of two days ago.

Val hoped he wouldn’t notice that she knew basically nothing about actually living in Kirkwall and was really just making it up as she went. Fuck. She was _really_ starting to miss the internet now.

* * *

**Day 3**

Val quickly came to the conclusion that, if she were to have an extended stay in Kirkwall, she would need new clothes. And soon.

At this point in her line of work, she was used to having booze and various other fluids spilt on her. It didn’t really faze her. What _did_ get to her, though, was the fact that she had nothing clean to change into, and that she would be wearing her beer-stained shirt all day, every day, until she acquired something else to wear. There was a reason you wore black when working at a bar.

Washing it was out of the question. Yes, the tavern had what she needed to wash clothes and linens, but drying her shirt would take half the day unless there was a fire to hang it near. Meaning she’d be topless for a while. Not that she thought any of the customers would mind—she might even be tipped for it—but she very much minded it herself. As it stood, she was one spill away from a wet t-shirt contest. At least she had a lap apron.

“Shit!” a burly man exclaimed as he realized he’d just knocked his drink over.

She couldn’t wait to be paid.

* * *

**Day 5**

Not even a week had passed and already Val’s new life in Kirkwall was settling into a routine. Wake up around mid-morning, have breakfast- correction, “break her fast” with Carl or Ernie (whichever was up first), clean the rooms (if they’d been used), empty the chamber pot (there was a sewer opening outside), clean the dining area for anything she missed the previous night, refill or replace the kegs in the front, then help out in the kitchen until new customers arrived. From there it was dealing with the lunch rush, the afternoon lull, the dinner rush, then the night’s drinking crowd, who were all chased out at around what Val suspected was midnight so that they could clean up and get some well-earned shut-eye. The bed she had in her room upstairs wasn’t all that comfortable, but after a long day on her feet she may as well have been lying down on a cloud for how fast she was out.

She had yet to leave the immediate area of the Wayward Warden, but that was mostly because she didn’t have to. She wasn’t sent on errands (a blessing, as she didn’t know the streets) and couldn’t really go to the market until she actually had money. There was enough to do around the tavern that it kept her occupied for the majority of her waking hours.

It wasn’t her old life in Vancouver, but it was enough, she supposed. To be honest with herself, she was surprised at how well she’d already adapted to and accepted the fact that she was now in a fictional medieval city in a fictional world. Maybe it was just a delayed reaction and she’d have a breakdown sometime soon, or she’d already gotten it out of the way that first day (with help from alcohol) and had reached the “acceptance” stage of grief.

Who was she kidding, she was suffering. This was fucking worst.

 _“But Val,”_ you say, _“you could have it so much worse. You could be in Ferelden right now dealing with darkspawn or any number of other terrible, horrible, no good, very bad situations. First world problems much?”_

Well, you know what? This _was_ a worse situation for Val, and Kirkwall could get fucked. Matter of fact, all of Thedas could get fucked. And fuck BioWare too for creating this place, while she was at it. Yes, she didn’t have to deal with the Fifth Blight or anything, but she still had no running water, no _clean_ water, no other clothing than what she was wearing, basically no money, her hair was a mess, and right now she wanted nothing more than to be back in her nice modern apartment in Vancouver and not dealing with any of Thedas’ bullshit.

The one _good_ thing she’d say about being in Kirkwall and working at the Wayward Warden was that the company was, overall, pretty good. She’d fit in fairly well to their routine and banter, and she was quickly growing on those that frequented the establishment. By that point in the week, Val had started to recognize enough patrons to get an idea of who the Regulars were. They were a motley bunch, these Lowtowners, but they were good folk who chatted her up whenever she came around to serve them and even tipped her reasonably well by Lowtown standards.

Some of the customers, on the other hand, were a little less than savoury.

“That’s the fourth time he’s grabbed my ass when I went to give him his drink, Ernie. Any more and I’m gonna cut his hand off.”

She was in the kitchen with Ernest, loading up a new serving tray of food while he cooked. The heat was stifling, and the room smelled of smoke, stew, sweat, beer, and bread. This also wasn’t the first time she’d complained about this specific customer, nor the first she’d threatened him out of his earshot.

“I’d really rather ye don’t resort to violence,” Ernie sighed. “He ain’t doin’ no one no harm so far.”

“That’s not exactly a no.”

“Ain’t a yes either.”

Val turned to face him fully. “If nobody tells him off for what he’s doing, he’ll think it’s okay to keep doing it.”

He paused in his work mixing the stew pot and studied her. After a long moment, he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Maker knows I can’t stop ya from doin’ anythin’ anyway. Just, don’t actually chop anythin’ a his off. Makes a right mess it does.”

“I’m glad you’re more concerned about the mess than the bodily harm,” Val grinned. She looked over at the knife rack and considered the selection. “Can I take one? Promise I won’t use it for chopping.”

“No. Yer a smart girl, you can figure somethin’ out.”

Val pouted, but its effected was negated by the fact that Ernest had turned his back. “Right,” she muttered to herself, picking up the serving tray and leaving the kitchen, “the old-fashioned way, then.”

Back home, every bar and club had a bouncer. Not always one or more large, beefy men whose very presence was intimidating in its own right, but everyone had someone who filled that role. And it seemed that Val would have to fill that role for the Wayward Warden for the foreseeable future.

She went about serving as usual, bringing the platter of food to the small group of men who’d ordered it (Bran, Henrick, and Orien, she recalled) and making small talk with them before moving on to other tables to check in with them. Overall, everyone was set with what they had, “though another drink wouldn’t hurt.” Val mentally braced herself for what was next—the last table she made her way around to belonged to Fuckhands McMike.

He looked up from his drink as she approached and gave her a grin. Probably thought himself charming, but it came off as a lopsided drunken smile.

“Need anything else, sir? Another drink perhaps?”

“What’ll it cost to get some time with a pretty little thing like you?” he drawled, eyeing her up and down with a hungry expression that had nothing to do with food.

Val scowled at him. “Well more than you can afford.”

Undeterred—perhaps even emboldened—he leaned towards her with a leer. “Aw, don’t be like that love, all I want is a lil touch.”

“You’re disgusting,” Val sneered, then turned to walk back to the bar. Almost on cue, a hand reached out and groped her ass. This time she was prepared. She seized the offending hand at the wrist and tore it away from her rear, serving to pull the man up out of his seat as well. “Try that again,” she hissed up at him, “and see what it gets you, _sir_.”

He jerked his arm in an attempt to break Val’s grip on it. “Get your damn hands off me, you bitch!”

She tightened her grip in response then blinked innocently at him. “What, don’t you like it when people grab you?” Val relaxed her grasp enough for Drunken Douchebag to yank his hand back with enough force for him to stumble back into his chair. He didn’t stay in it for long. Almost as soon as he’d hit the chair, he leaped back up again, drawing a straight-edged dagger from a sheath on his right thigh as he did.

Well, this was a first. She’d never had a weapon pulled on her by a drunkard. Maybe she should’ve cut him off a few drinks ago.

Val didn’t have any more time for thought when Stabby Drunk Man lunged at her with the dagger held above his head in his right hand, pointed down. She reacted almost mechanically. Step into the blow, not away. Left forearm up in front of her head. Block downward swing with forearm. Right knee to the balls. Shove hand with knife aside as he doubles over in pain. Grab hair with right hand. Introduce face to table. Slam right elbow onto shoulder. Grab wrist of hand holding dagger. Wrench behind back. Pin face and upper chest to table. Disarm of blade.

It was over in a flash, and left Val pressing the tip of the man’s own dagger into his neck while she pressed his face into the table. He was whimpering. Likely in a substantial amount of pain at that. She bent her head to whisper in his ear, pressing just a little more with the dagger, pulling just a bit more on his arm to make sure he got the message.

“I’m afraid, _sir_ , that I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re making quite the scene. Best do so before you lose anything more than your dignity.” She withdrew the blade and considered it. It wasn’t a terribly remarkable dagger, not by any means. Still, it appeared to be of quality craftsmanship—as quality as could be gotten by someone in Lowtown, anyways. “And your knife.”

She stepped away with a satisfied smirk. It took the man a moment to pick himself and what was left of his pride up off the table Val had slammed his face into, and the look he gave her when he finally lifted his gaze was priceless. Pain and naked fear was written across his face—along with blood from a broken nose. It was probably the first time a woman had ever done that to him. He looked around the tavern wildly.

“Out,” Val commanded, stance loose. “And don’t even think of coming back with friends.”

He was quick to obey, stumbling out the door as fast as he could given the damage she’d inflicted to his reproductive organs. In the wake of his departure, Val realized that the whole room was staring at her in total silence, mouths agape and wearing expressions of shock and awe. And that a familiar blonde dwarf was standing just inside the doorway, mechanical crossbow held at low ready in front of him.

She gave him a smile and a wave with her free hand. “Hi! Welcome to the Wayward Warden. Can I get you anything to start?”


End file.
